


EOP-1

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Pseudoscience, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The best description I've come up with is 'extraterrestrial virus,'" Bruce said. "I'm calling it EOP-1. Extraterrestrial Originating Pathogen 1."</p><p>Post-battle, things start to go badly for the team. Very badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	EOP-1

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed it in the tags, this isn't happy. 
> 
> dysprositos (on ffn.net): I'm not a real scientist, and certainly not a doctor. All science/medical stuff is mostly the product of my imagination, and would probably make my virology professor cry tears of hopelessness. Don't look at it too closely...

Natasha noticed it first, the day after the battle, but she didn't say anything.

After all, she'd just moved into Stark Tower, and it was under construction. Reconstruction. God only knew what weird chemicals and stuff were floating around. Also, almost everything was new, from the carpets to the bedding to the furniture. Probably, one of the industrial-strength cleaning solvents was to blame. Or one of the many other things that made the Tower smell like a cross between a hospital and an old folks' home.

Whatever it was, Natasha wasn't really one to freak out about something as minor as a rash, even if it  _did_ come with a headache. She just took a small dose of a painkiller (nothing too much because it could lower her alertness) and put on a long-sleeved shirt.

Tony noticed it next, and he  _did_ say something. Because Tony  _was_ the type to complain.

Over dinner, he addressed his new roommates (Towermates?), "I'm apparently allergic to one of you, so I'm going to start testing you to figure out which. My bet's on you, Legolas. It's probably the dander from your feathers." Tony summarily dismissed the headache as the result of too much work and not nearly enough scotch, completely disregarding any potential connection to the rash.

Clint had been properly offended by Tony's accusation ("I don't have  _dander._ Or  _feathers_!"), and he became even more so when Tony insisted he was dead serious about scanning all of them for allergens. "How d'you know it's one of us, Stark?" Clint demanded. "There's like, a billion foreign substances and shit in here!"

Tony shook his head, "Didn't start 'til all of you showed up. Sorry, Barton, just go with the flow."

Clint grumbled, but he eventually agreed. After all, from the way Tony was unhappily scratching at his arms and chest, it was clear that the billionaire's discomfort was very real.

A fact that Clint became very well aware of when he came down with what he assumed was the same rash.

It started at his hands and crept up his arms and down his chest, until his entire body was covered in burning, itchy red patches that no amount of scratching, Benadryl, or calamine lotion would alleviate. He'd know; he tried them all.

With all of the itching, Clint barely even noticed the headache. The majority of his consciousness was focused on  _not_ scratching, so that left him with little time to think. He eventually resorted to having Nat sit on his hands, and that helped a little.

"Serves you right, Barton," Tony gloated.

Clint was disinclined to agree.

"I think we should tell SHIELD," Bruce advised, when Clint finally admitted to having the rash, a day after he first noticed it. Because he was good, but he did like to complain, just a little. And this goddamn itching was certainly something to be complained about. "Seems kinda strange, doesn't it? All of you coming down with the same thing?"

Tony disagreed vehemently, "Fuck that. It's not a big deal, Banner."

And Bruce, more than willing to yield to Tony's more authoritative judgment (what a fool he was), nodded. "Sure."

For a couple of days, the three of them existed in an itchy, miserable haze. The rash did not get any better, but since it didn't seem to be getting any worse, they mostly tried to grin and bear it, figuring whatever was aggravating them would, well, stop (how he regretted that, now, but would a couple more days really have made a difference?).

Tony eventually grew impatient, and so he recruited Bruce. Between the two of them, they determined that, whatever the rash was, it  _wasn't_ an allergic reaction. Testing for that had been a waste of time, but Tony steadfastly refused to admit that he might have been wrong. Thinking instead that it might be an environmental irritant, they took samples of a huge number of substances. Nothing they tested was the culprit, though, and so they kept testing, getting more and more creative. Again, Tony wouldn't say that he might be wrong, so they just kept going. Bruce was too mild-mannered to suggest another avenue, even as he questioned Tony's methodology.

"You know, the rash kinda looks like the chickenpox," Bruce observed, while studying a sample from Tony's right arm under the microscope. And he was correct, even as the tests came back negative for viral infection. And for bacterial infection. And for fungal infection. And for parasite infection.

"Any  _other_ kind of infection you can think of?" Bruce was tired, but he didn't do caffeine. And Tony wouldn't sleep except for the odd two-hour catnap here and there, and Bruce felt obligated to keep the same schedule. So he felt like his snarkiness was justified.

"No, wise guy. No more infections. But look at this..." Tony ignored Bruce's sarcasm; it barely even registered. He was in the zone. Long days and even longer nights, with a clear problem to solve, were right up his alley. He was too caught up in the thrill to notice the danger, indeed, to even acknowledge that there might  _be_ danger.

Two days into what was becoming an epic quest for answers, fueled by donuts and very little sleep, Steve made his way down to their lab.

"Um, I think I have a problem," he said, rubbing the back of his head nervously. And Tony and Bruce, for once, found themselves in immediate agreement. Because the supersoldier was covered in the same rash that had been plaguing the others for days, except _worse_. His skin was patches of red and white, and the red splotches seemed to be comprised of dozens of small, raised blisters. Some of these had burst open, discharging some kind of thick fluid and leaving oozing wounds in his flesh. The rash had even spread to his face. And, well, it wasn't pretty. Tony hadn't thought it was possible to ruin Steve's All-American good looks, but here was the proof. In the flesh ( _this is not the time for humor, Stark, what the hell is wrong with you?_ ).

"Shit," Tony said instead, leading Steve over to one of the lab tables. "Hop up 'n take off your shirt." Steve obliged, sitting on the table, patiently allowing Tony and Bruce to poke and prod at him. In Bruce's opinion, he was a much better patient than Tony.

"When did you notice the symptoms starting?" Bruce asked, his head back in the game. Because Clint, Natasha, and Tony had been covered in this rash for  _days_ , and none of them had reached this level of...reaction. Infection. Whatever. He was sleep-deprived, eloquence was overrated anyway.

"Early this morning. And it just keeps getting worse..."

"Headache?"

Steve winced and nodded slowly. "Throbbing."

"What do you think?" Tony asked Bruce, as they leaned over their samples a few hours later. They had sent Steve upstairs to rest, after covering the open sores with antibiotic ointment and gauze pads. That was more for Steve's peace of mind than anything, though. The supersoldier was clearly worried, and who could blame him?

Bruce shook his head, peering into his microscope. "No idea. It looks like it's the same thing as everyone else, but we still don't know what that even  _is_. And it's weird that it took so long to show up...and then got so bad, so fast." He looked up and paused for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. "I think we need to tell SHIELD."

They'd been trying to avoid that, of course—SHIELD was busy trying to clean up after the battle (it hadn't even been a week since), and far more importantly, Tony's ego liked it when Tony solved his problems himself. Involving the government rankled, but thinking about Steve (who was obviously both in pain and struggling not to scratch), Tony decided Bruce was right. "Yeah. I'll call Fury. You keep trying to isolate our culprit."

Bruce nodded, turning back to his microscope.

Fury was, of course, beyond pissed that they had kept this from him. Over the video call, it was hard to tell, but Tony thought he could see a vein pulsing at Fury's temple. "What the fuck, Stark? If there's some kind of disease taking out my assets, I kinda need to know that shit! Christ, what if it spreads?"

"It's not a disease," Tony reassured him (still leaning towards 'allergies,' despite evidence to the contrary), missing Fury's point entirely. What the hell, Bruce wasn't the only one starting to feel a little...off from lack of sleep. And it's not like Tony's people skills were the best to begin with, anyway. "It's not infectious. At least, it doesn't transmit between humans. Bruce is fine—"

"Banner's not  _human_ , Stark."

That made Tony pause. "Um, yes he is—"

"Look, I'm not trying to get into an ethics debate with you. 'What defines humanity' or what the fuck ever. I am saying that, genetically, Banner is not  _human_. I had my scientists run an analysis. Banner's DNA was altered significantly by the gamma blast."

"Altered how?"

"Like I know, Stark, I have PhDs that I pay to know that shit."

Tony considered that for a minute, before asking, "What about Rogers?"

"Fundamentally human. 'Enhanced mitochondrial output' or some shit. Hell, enhanced everything. Look, can you tell me for fucking sure if it's contagious or not?"

Tony shook his head. "We haven't isolated what's causing it. Until we do, we won't know if it's contagious. But I don't think it  _is_ , because none of us have left the Tower since the battle, so we didn't pick it up out there." This had been Fury's direct order— 'keep a low profile,' he'd said, and Tony had offered everyone a place to stay plus pretty much any kind of entertainment they could imagine, so they'd hunkered down to wait out the post-battle furor. After sending Thor and Loki back off to Asgard, of course.

"Shit. Fine. Keep working at it. None of you are permitted to leave the premises until you can tell me something. You're in quarantine. I'll have a courier pick up samples so we can work on it at our end. Make a list of anything else you need. And I'll send over Rogers's file. Maybe something in there will help." He thought for a moment. "Say  _nothing_ about this to the public."

Tony shrugged; he'd had no intention of leaking anything to the press. "Sure. But what if this is contagious? If it does go epidemic?"

Fury massaged his temple. "Let's just fucking hope that doesn't happen, Stark. Keep me posted." The screen went black.

Tony, after quickly informing Barton and Romanoff of Fury's directive to stay put (he went in person to see how they were doing. "Fine," they said, even as they both looked a little...off), headed back downstairs.

Bruce and he stayed up as late as possible, but they had to crash about 4:00 AM because even Tony needed sleep then. They woke at 8:30 AM sharp, but they were forced to concede that they were no closer to figuring out what was ailing Tony and the other three. And when Steve came down to the lab, it became apparent how badly they needed to.

He'd gotten worse overnight, with more of the blisters bursting, leaving him covered almost head-to-toe in sores. Bruce ushered him hastily over to the lab table. "Hey, Tony," he asked, and Tony could hear the faintest edge of panic in his voice ( _sure hope Steve can't_ ), "Do you have any more betadine? Or antibiotic ointment?"

"Let me check," Tony said, promptly turning around and leaving, heading up a floor to his personal lab. As he walked, he asked, "JARVIS, could you please send Barton and Romanoff to the main lab?"

"Of course, sir."

Tony dug through his first aid supplies, trying to crush the rising sense of dread ( _God, he's getting worse so_ fast _)_ that Steve's appearance had awakened in him. He gave a frustrated sigh before gathering everything he had up in his arms and bringing it back downstairs. They way things were going, they'd find a use for...the hypodermics and tiny band-aids.

Bruce accepted the supplies gratefully before setting to work.

By the time Clint and Natasha made it down to the lab, Bruce was mostly finished. "What's up with him?" Clint asked, gesturing at Steve. The supersoldier was covered nearly head-to-toe in white gauze bandaging. If Tony hadn't been so downtrodden, he would have laughed at the sight of Steve 'Goody-Two Shoes' Rogers all done up like a mummy. And it wasn't even Halloween yet.

"We need to talk," Tony said by way of an answer, banishing the distracting thoughts. He quickly explained about Steve's condition.

"Bruce and I are trying to figure this out," Tony finished, scratching at his own rash though the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "But we're not having much luck. We're going to need more samples."

"Of course, anything," Natasha agreed, casting a concerned look towards Steve. He was beginning to look pale and drawn. His condition would have been alarming if he was a normal person, but this sort of thing wasn't supposed to be able to happen to him—the 'supersoldier' thing had supposedly taken care of that possibility.

That it  _was_ happening to him was nothing short of disturbing. And it made her worry more about her own illness, a quiet whisper in the back of her mind.

Clint and Natasha patiently allowed Tony and Bruce to take more samples, which the scientists spent the whole day analyzing. Clint being patient was really out of the ordinary, so Natasha inferred that he  _must_ be feeling terrible, and the whisper in her mind became more pronounced.

Although they were reasonably sure that whatever was causing the rash (and 'rash' was too small a word for this, now, but what else could they call it?) wasn't bacterial, fungal, or viral, they began to treat Steve for all three, using (to the best of their ability) supplies delivered by the SHIELD courier.

His file, brought by the same courier, yielded nothing other than reinforcing Fury's statement that Steve was largely human, except for a few enhancements—mitochondria output, cell division rate, and so on. Bruce gave a frustrated sigh at this fact.

Steve's condition seemed to even out, but no one could tell if it was because of the intervention. For the moment, although he was in pain, he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. His breathing, pulse, and blood pressure were fine, and although his temperature was slightly elevated, it was still less than 100 F. By 2:00 AM, Clint and Natasha had dozed off, heads resting on the lab table, and it was clear that Tony and Bruce were lagging as well despite their four and half hours of sleep earlier. At 2:30, the assassins roused long enough to drag themselves upstairs to bed.

Bruce and Tony dismissed them with a "We'll call you if we need you," before getting back to work.

At 3:30, Steve suggested to Tony and Bruce, "Go to bed." But neither scientist took his advice; the supersoldier's temperature had been creeping up for the last few hours, and was now hovering around 103 F. It seemed like a pretty clear indicator that they should keep working.

Through the wee hours of the morning, Steve's condition began to take a dramatic turn for the worse. The headache, which he had pushed into the background, came roaring back with a vengeance, and more of his rash turned into weeping sores. About 4:30, he asked Bruce to wrap his hands so that he couldn't scratch. He couldn't ignore the itching, but scratching was agony, and it seemed like the only solution.

Steve, who'd been moved to a cot they'd set up in the corner, tried to bear the pain in silence, but as more and more of his skin was left pocketed and oozing, he couldn't completely stifle the groans that each and every tiny movement pulled from his throat. His bandaged hands lay uselessly on his chest as he became too weak to lift them.

Bruce and Tony mostly watched helplessly, pacing between Steve's bedside and their microscopes. Until Tony declared, "Fuck this," and went upstairs to call Fury.

"I think he's dying," Tony said, his voice flat.

Fury looked exhausted, and for a moment, Tony almost felt bad for laying this burden on him. Almost. Fury just sighed in response.

"You need to do something," Tony insisted. "Nothing's helping, and he just keeps getting  _worse._ "

"What do you want me to do, Stark? We're working on this as hard as you are. You're treating him?"

"Yeah, but it's not  _doing_ anything."

"Do you think we could do anything you're not?"

"He needs to be in a hospital, Fury, this is ridiculous."

But Fury shook his head. "I cannot let this leave quarantine." And as pissed off as Tony was, even he couldn't deny the real regret, the real sorrow, in the director's words.

"You're just going to let this happen, aren't you?"

"Keep working, Stark, and we will too. That's all we can do."

This time, Tony ended the call on Fury before striding back downstairs.

At 8:00 AM, Bruce tapped on Tony's shoulder. "Tony."

Tony, who was in the throes of an epic migraine, growled, "What?"

"I think I have something."

Instantly more alert, Tony jumped up. "Hit me."

Bruce indicated his microscope. "Look. I used a different combination of stains, and well, check it out."

Tony peered into the microscope. He was looking at the same fucking cells he'd been looking at all night. Except, something else was visible, now. Something tiny. And there was a lot of them, these tiny pinpricks, tiny even by the tiny scale of the cell.

"What is it?"

"I don't know, but," and Bruce switched to a different slide, "I did it for Barton and Romanoff, too, and they've got the same thing. You probably do too, I just don't have a fresh sample to test."

Tony shot a quick glance over his shoulder towards Steve's corner. It had gone mostly silent around 6:00 AM, the only sound for the last two hours being Steve's increasingly harsh, wet, gasping breaths. He turned back to face Bruce. "What  _is_ it?" he asked again.

Bruce shrugged helplessly, hopelessly. "Nothing I've ever seen before. I can try to see if there's anything in the literature—"

"Trying's not  _good_ enough!" Tony growled suddenly, slamming his fist into the lab table. "What the hell is  _happening_?" Then, as the pain in his hand registered, " _Fuck!_ "

Bruce sighed, exhaustion cutting deep lines into his face. "Look, I know this is frustrating, but I'm doing everything I can.  _We_ are doing everything we can." It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. "Now, let me see your damn hand. Moron."

Tony offered the limb wordlessly.

Bruce prodded at Tony's knuckles. "Nothing looks broken. Just bruised." Then, in a completely different tone, "Tony." He sounded worried.

"Huh? What?"

Bruce didn't answer, and after a moment, Tony looked down.

Bruce was pointing at a spot on Tony's arm, at the rash. The rash, which had, at some point, begun to blister.

Tony looked up to meet Bruce's eyes, feeling the shocked, horrified look on his own face. "Shit."

"I'll get Barton and Romanoff down here," Bruce said, quickly stepping away.

As he made the call, Tony just stared down at his own arm in blank dismay. _Fuckity fuck, damn it, I don't want to go down like_ this. For the first time, it had finally occurred to him that  _this_  might be it. The end.  _His_  end. Because seeing what this...disease? had done to Captain America, what kind of chance did  _he_ stand?

Bruce's examination revealed that both assassins had begun to blister as well, and all three of them were running low-grade fevers.

"How do you feel?" Bruce asked, pushing his glasses up roughly, trying to stay focused despite the panic worming its way through his gut.

"Fine? I guess?" Clint answered, shooting a glance towards Steve's corner. "Shit, this is serious, isn't it? Why the fuck didn't you call us down here sooner?" Evidently, Clint had come to the same conclusion that Tony just had, but hearing the edge of panic in the archer's voice was nonetheless grating.

"What the hell could you do?" Tony snarled, "Shoot him with an arrow?" The billionaire scratched roughly at his chest, wincing suddenly.

Clint didn't rise to Tony's challenge. He just answered, "I don't know, Stark. Something? Fuck. We could sneak him out of here..."

But Natasha shook her head. "If it's contagious...we can't risk it. We can't risk infecting all of New York with this. It needs to stay here." (Natasha was pragmatic, even to the end.)

Tony knew it was the truth, but that didn't make it  _suck_  any less. "Shit. I'm sorry, Barton, it's just..."  _Captain Fucking America is_ dying  _in my lab and there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing anyone can do about it...and I think we're all going to go down the same way._

Clint just nodded. "I know."

After a moment, Bruce cleared his throat. "It, um. It looks like none of the treatments are effective. Do you want to try them anyway?"

Natasha shook her head. "Not with an endorsement like that, Banner. Just..." she sighed, and didn't finish. Without another word, she took Clint's hand and led him over to sit next to Steve's cot. They both rested a hand over Steve's clasped ones, keeping theirs twined together as well.

Tony and Bruce went back to work, sending the new information to SHIELD before poring through the literature, trying to find any information on these tiny...whatevers.

At 10:00, they got a call from SHIELD that cracked the mystery.

"We sent your report around to all the research divisions," Fury said, "And we got a hit almost immediately from the ERD—Extraterrestrial Research Division. They finished their examination of the Chitauri remains, and those fuckers were  _crawling_ with...whatever the fuck this shit is. It was in their blood. Are you saying that's what causing this?"

Tony didn't answer, so Bruce did, "We can't say for sure but...if what you're saying is true...it makes sense." As much as any of this did, anyway. "What else do you know?"

"I emailed the full report. It'll be more helpful than me." Fury ended the call abruptly. He had been able to see into the room over their shoulders, and fuck, did Rogers look bad.

Bruce immediately opened the e-mail and its 10 attachments, perusing them quickly. "Looks like it might some kind of alien...virus. I don't know, though, it doesn't make  _sense..._ Tony?"

The billionaire was standing in the middle of the room, looking dazed, swaying a little. Bruce put a hand to Tony's forehead, feeling the heat radiating off of him. "Shit, Tony, why didn't you  _say_ something?"

"I didn't...think..." he scratched at his arm and then gave a small groan. "I didn't think it was this bad...it's too  _fast_." Like there was any logic to this, any predictable path.

"Shirt off. Now," Bruce demanded. Clint and Natasha rose from where they'd been watching Steve to observe Tony. They felt a little voyeuristic, but hey, it was probably about to happen to them, anyway, and knowledge was power.

However, there was no power to be had here.

Tony peeled his shirt off, revealing the open sores underneath. He looked down and muttered, "Shit."

Without another word, Bruce pushed Tony down so that he was sitting on the lab table. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the assassins. "Could one of you...there's more cots in lab 19. Could you grab one, please?"

Clint nodded, then said with a rueful smile, "Maybe I oughtta make it three, hey doc?"

Bruce didn't answer, and after a moment, Clint slipped from the lab.

He ended up wheeling three cots in, lining them up along the wall next to Steve's. The supersoldier was struggling. He hadn't regained consciousness, and his breathing had become more slow and labored. The sores covering his body had dried up with his fever, and his lips were cracked and dry as well, the IV of fluids Bruce had set up doing nothing against the dehydration.

Bruce led Tony to one of the cots and helped him up.

"I can still work," Tony insisted, but Bruce shook his head.

Instead of answering Tony, Bruce addressed Clint and Natasha. "Could one of you...help him? There's antibiotic ointment..." Even he was aware of how hopeless he sounded, how exhausted. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sorry, Tony, but there's only the one IV."

"No worries, doc," Tony said, settling back onto his pillow. "Just...figure this out, 'kay?"

And Bruce got back to work.

Even though it was too late.

 

* * *

At 11:45 AM, Natasha started to spike a fever and her rash began to blister. She lay down on Steve's other side.

"Bruce?" she asked, an hour later, roused from the doze she'd fallen into. She sounded dazed, like she wasn't quite all there.

"Yes?" he replied, distracted, on the edge of panic, fighting against the tide of it threatening to swallow him whole.  _Control, Banner. You need to stay focused._

"I'm going to be okay, right?"

"Of course you are," he reassured her, and none of the others were aware enough to catch him in his lie.

Because Bruce was no closer to a cure, to an answer, to anything.

At 2:30 PM, Tony lapsed into unconsciousness. He'd been mumbling for hours, about Pepper, about the suit, about all the great ideas he'd had for new products. Bruce had mostly tuned him out, to the point that it took him several minutes to notice the running diatribe had ceased. When he  _did_ notice, he felt a pang in his chest. Because those mumbled, incoherent ramblings were the last thing that Tony ever said, and Bruce had let them pass unnoted, unmarked, and unremembered.

Natasha stayed conscious until 4:21 PM. She had watched Tony slip into sleep, a sleep that she now accepted he would not wake from.

"It's okay," she muttered, reaching for Bruce's hand as he stood by her cot. He let her take it. "It's...not your fault. But...this isn't what I wanted, Banner."

"This," he told her, "isn't what anyone wanted."

By late afternoon, Clint had begun to succumb as well, and by 5:23 PM, he was unconscious on the final cot in the row. He'd been telling Bruce about the missions he and Nat had gone on, all the things they'd done, but more importantly, all the things they'd meant to do, when his words became softer, and softer, until he was no longer speaking at all.

And Bruce, now alone in his conscious state, was no nearer to a solution. He found his hands full with caring for them, trying to heal the blisters, trying to break their fevers, trying to do  _anything_ to alleviate their symptoms. But nothing worked, nothing lowered their fevers, nothing roused them, and it was with a growing, swelling, overwhelming sense of dread and panic that he paced between their beds.

At 6:28 PM, Steve gave one last pained gasp, and, having never again regained consciousness in the last day of his life, passed quietly into the next.

Bruce, who had been worked into a frenzy, froze for several seconds before lunging for Steve's carotid. He felt for a pulse, but there was none. He stood, stupefied, dazed, listening to the gasping breaths of the others as he tried to come to terms with the fact that Captain America, the world's first superhero, had just died a quiet, unassuming death, taken down by something no man could ever best in a battle.

At 8:57, Tony followed in Steve's footsteps, and Bruce found his death equally stunning. For the passing of such a giant of industry certainly should have had more fanfare, more meaning, more  _something_. Bruce knew that this was not the ending Tony would have chosen, probably wasn't even in the top ten. There was no justice in it, that it should end this way, not after everything that Tony Stark had done, not with everything that Tony Stark  _was_.

Natasha went around midnight, and although Bruce had not known her well, he still felt her death acutely, railed against the injustice of it. Because she, too, had not wanted this. She had been ready to die in a battle, for her friends. She had fought the Chitauri and _won_ , only to be taken down by them after the fact.

Clint lingered until after 3:00 AM, and his death was, as the others, without fanfare, quiet, and entirely senseless. Luckily, he never regained consciousness to see Natasha dead, lying next to him. After hearing the archer's clear adoration for her, the love apparent in his voice as he recounted their adventures, Bruce counted this as a blessing.

And when Clint, too, had finally passed, and Bruce was left alone in the silence, he quietly got up to call SHIELD.

Fury was disbelieving of course ("What the  _fuck happened_ , Banner?  _How_ did this happen?") but Bruce didn't have any answers for him, didn't have any answers at all, in fact. He had only what he had all along: nothing.

In a haze, he went back to work, carefully ignoring the bodies of the people who, with time, would have become his friends. He ignored them even as the team from SHIELD (in hazmat suits and special ventilation units) came to take them first to autopsy, and then to their final resting places.

Bruce did not go to their funerals, instead opting to continue his work. He had nothing he could have said at any of their memorials, had nothing to offer except his deepest apologies. Those, he felt, were worthless. They weren't enough when they were alive, and they were even more meaningless after their deaths.

It took him three weeks. His sleep schedule was carefully regulated, and he got between six and eight hours a night, and made sure to eat at least twice a day, which optimized his productivity. Despite that, it  _still_ took him three weeks. Three long, quiet weeks, using (with Pepper's permission; she'd inherited all of Tony's property) all of the resources Stark Tower had to offer. But he finally had an answer.

Granted, it was too late. For the Avengers, certainly, and for most of the 3,412 other cases that had flooded hospitals, doctors' offices, and the CDC in the days since the invasion. Bruce, buried in his work, had missed this entirely, had not paid attention to the news stories or the panic in the streets. And no one had seen fit to bother him with it, with this small detail.

He'd had a goal to reach, after all.

Bruce gave his final report to Fury and the World Security Council twenty-four days after the Avengers had succumbed to the disease.

 _Cause of death?_ "The best description I've come up with is 'extraterrestrial virus.' I'm calling it EOP-1. Extraterrestrial Originating Pathogen 1."

 _Tell us more._ "It seems like these tiny...organisms...infect a cell, then alter the cell so that it produces more EOP. When the cell divides, each new cell also creates EOP. Which explains why Captain Rogers was unable to fend off the illness; his enhanced physiology was working against him."

 _That sounds dangerous. What is the method of transmittance?_ "It's blood-borne. EOP cannot live outside of the cells or extracellular matrix. I'm assuming those affected came into direct contact with the Chitauri's blood."

 _Is there danger of an epidemic?_ "I don't think so. Direct contact with infected body fluids would be necessary for transmittance, and I don't see that happening on a large scale. Just get people treated early and that should be sufficient."

 _Do you have a cure?_  "I do." And Bruce paused, the only time he needed to stop and gather his thoughts. Because this next part  _hurt_. "It seems exposure to low levels of gamma radiation kills the EOP, stopping and reversing the infection."

Neither Fury nor any member of the WSC had anything to say about this beyond, "Write up a protocol," (which was some kind of miracle) so Bruce did as they asked, sending the completed document to SHIELD's medical staff.

The next morning, he caught a plane back to India.

 


End file.
